


Wreck Me

by Humangarbage



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Stranger Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 18:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7372456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humangarbage/pseuds/Humangarbage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington and Hamilton meet in a bar. Pure smut.</p>
<p>AKA that one time I got drunk and decided to write founding fathers porn?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wreck Me

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fanfic in this genre, and also my first fic in general in years. Sometimes you just drink too much and you end up righting porn about the founding fathers....
> 
> Also, this should go without saying, but don't try this at home, kids.

There's this glorious stage of drunkenness where your nerves endings have been mostly numbed, and nothing seems quite real. You stare in the mirror, and it's hard to recognize the face staring back at you. There's a disconnect between your mind and your physical being.

Then it all comes slamming back to you, with a slap, or a punch, or with a tongue sliding into your mouth for a filthy kiss.

That is what I fucking live for.

There's nothing better in this world than being six shots deep and having someone slam you against a brick wall in an alley. Biting your lip until it bleeds, then reaching down to cup you roughly through your jeans.

And fuck if that wasn't what he gave me last night. 

It really should’ve been harder than it was. There should’ve been some sort of flirtation to it. A dance sweeping two strangers into a dizzying romance, some bullshit like that. All it really took was a few sultry glances, a lingering touch or two, then a quick retreat to the alley. 

The waiting was the worst part. A sense of dread that maybe I read the signals wrong, maybe he wasn't looking to wreck me. Not the way I needed to be wrecked. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen. Crossed wires, missed signals. Some poor fucking sap looking for a love connection.

Not with him though.

Barely any time passed between when I slammed cash down on the bar, to cover my tab, sent one last meaningful glance, and ducked out the side exit, before I was pinned against the wall. 

Confession time. I make this fucking god awful noise when I get like this. A high pitched keeping comes out of the back of my throat, and I can't stop it, no matter how hard I try. Fucking Washington picked up on it in the first 30 seconds, and focused on making me make that sound as often as possible.

You might think that I couldn't possibly know his motivations, but that's where you'd be wrong.

You see, as soon as he pressed me up against the wall, fucking bricks dragging against my mostly numbed skin, reawakening the nerve endings I'd been dutifully drowning in whiskey all night, he did the one thing that is sure to drag that noise out of me. He reached up, wrapped my hair around his fist, and pulled.

I was done for. I keened. I wish there was a more attractive word for it, but there just isn't. The second I made that noise though, it was all fucking over.

“There's my good girl” he growled in my ear. “I knew you'd make the prettiest noises for me”.

There's just no coming back from that.

From that second on I was a keening, whimpering, fucking mess. And there he was, strong, and forceful, and making me hurt in all the right ways. He lifted up on one of his huge thighs and pressed it against me so hard I swear to God I almost blacked out.

“Common, ride my leg. I want my pretty little bitch to come just like this.” He was biting my neck just this side of too hard, reaching up to twist and tug at my nipples through my shirt, and I was helpless to do anything other than follow orders. Still whimpering, begging, keening. 

“Good girl, good girl. Just like this. Common ride my leg good. You're doing so well for me.”

Christ, the man never stopped fucking talking. Ironic, because that's what everyone always accused me of. But I sure as shit wasn't talking then. I'm fluent in several languages, but nothing came to my tongue other than unintelligible sounds of pleasure. The praise sank in through the whiskey haze in a way that nothing other than pain ever had. I couldn't get e-fucking-nough. 

I came against the man’s leg, just like he had demanded. Just like a bitch in heat. Whining, licking his neck, grinding against that glorious thigh until I was a sticky, trembling mess.

As he slowly let me sink back down to the ground, I leaned forward into his broad chest to catch my breath.

“What's your name?” Fucking rookie mistake. I don't usually ask names for people I fuck in alleys, but somewhere in the whirling mess left in my brain between the alcohol, the praise, and the orgasm, I couldn't help myself. Not to mention the fact that he did this truly incredible thing with his thumbs, in my shoulder blades that somehow managed to release years of tension. 

“Washington. You can call me Washington.” His voice was strained, and when I looked back up at him his eyes were blown with lust. And I really couldn't be held responsible for the next thing I did.

“Well, Washington, I'm about to change your life”. And I sank to my knees.

I've never been a particularly proud man, but somehow getting on my knees in front of another man has always managed to rankle me in the past. Not so for Washington.

Something about the gentle tug on my hair the non-stop litany of praise, and dark way he murmured “That's it my boy” made me want to do everything I could to please him. I licked, sucked, opened for him. Clinging to every single moan, word, choked back sob as if it was the last thing my goddamn ears would hear.

It was over too soon. I took everything he had and wanted to beg for more. 

With one last gentle stroke of my hair he whispered “You were so good for me, my boy” and walked out of my life, as quickly as he had come.

There's this glorious stage of drunkenness where your nerves endings have been mostly numbed, and nothing seems quite real. You stare in the mirror, and it's hard to recognize the face staring back at you. There's a disconnect between your mind and your physical being.

Now, laying in bed, pain throbbing in my head from a few too many shots, I can't help but wonder if maybe now of it was real. Maybe I didn't really have the best fuck of my life in an alleyway while half drunk, but there's a soreness in my knees, and a few too many mouth shaped bruises on my neck to deny what happened last night.

All I can think about it how much I want it to happen again, and holy fuck I hope that he's back there tonight, because I'll be damned if I leave without a number a second time.


End file.
